


Russian Roulette

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mistaken Identity, Russian Mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A confrontation between Neal and Peter turns deadly, and Neal must decide where his loyalties lie.<br/>Set during the tumultuous Season 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Convoluted Confrontation

     Peter and Neal were definitely not in a good place right now. To say that their personal relationship was one hot mess would be putting it mildly. After being drawn into Neal’s complicated history with his father, and then taking the fall for a murder that he didn’t commit, Peter had been left gun-shy and bitter. His existence had been so much simpler before Caffrey swanned in and always tried, in his own criminally bizarre way, to fix everything. Now Peter was re-evaluating his life, and attempting to find a stable baseline again. His CI was resentful and just didn’t get it!

    Of course, no matter how hard they tried, the partners’ private animosity bled over into their professional lives as well. FBI agents are trained to be perceptive and to pick up on subtleties, so the rest of the White Collar team now found themselves a bit wary and were walking on eggshells. When Mommy and Daddy were fighting, you kept your head down and hoped they would make up soon so that things could get back to normal.

     However, there was going to be a new normal, Peter decided. He needed to step back and make his recent promotion to ASAC his only priority. He could no longer afford to let emotions cloud his judgment. He told Neal as much one evening in his loft when he labeled his former friend a “criminal.” Peter also informed Neal that he would be getting a new uncompromised handler. The con artist suddenly felt as if he was an unwanted white elephant present that Peter was re-gifting.

     Early one evening as he paced in his loft, Neal found that his bitterness was fomenting because he just couldn’t let it go. He decided that he and Peter needed to have a good, old-fashioned argument away from eavesdropping ears. Neal had some things that he had to say whether Peter liked it or not! He decided to show up at the Burke townhouse unannounced. Neal knew that Elizabeth was out of town in DC arranging the sublet of the apartment that she had originally rented before she discovered her pregnancy. It was good that she was away, because, as with Peter, Neal perceived a thinly veiled animosity towards him from Elizabeth as well. She blamed Neal, rightly or wrongly, for all the bad things that had befallen her husband these last few months.

      Neal was just making his way up the few steps to the townhouse when he heard a pistol shot within the home. He froze for only a second before putting his shoulder to the front door and barreling his way through the opening. What he saw in the living room was surreal. Two thick, swarthy men were standing over Peter, who lay on the floor gripping his right arm that was bleeding profusely onto the rug. One of the men was holding a gun to Peter’s head, and Neal, now on autopilot, threw himself into the man’s side with a vengeance. Of course, the slightly built CI was no match for these two muscle-bound, would-be assassins. The thugs landed brutal body blows as well as uppercuts to his face until he, too, was bleeding onto the rug.

     Now both agent and CI were sitting side by side on the floor of the townhouse, and thankfully, the flow of blood from Peter’s arm seemed to have clotted. One of the home invaders kept a gun trained on the two while his accomplice nervously spoke into his phone. Neal recognized Russian during the one-sided conversation and interpreted for Peter.

     “Apparently, he’s just a drone who had an assignment from somebody higher up the food chain,” Neal explained. “Now he’s had to make that person aware that things went sideways, and I’m surmising that he’s been given some kind of directive by the multitude of Russian ‘yeses’ I heard, but I have no clue what that may be,” Neal said with trepidation.

     “I have a pretty good idea,” Peter said wryly without elaborating for his partner.

     But Neal was no fool and didn’t need Peter to explain the drama to him. Although his handler no longer shared his cases with Neal, the CI had kept his ear to the ground and made himself privy to what was happening in the FBI world. Neal knew that Peter had been instrumental in a concerted effort by all those federal agencies designated by acronyms to bring down Russian crime boss, Anton Rostov.

     When the USSR collapsed in the 90’s and the Russian economy was in chaos, organized crime syndicates emerged. There was a multitude of ex-KGB agents and Afghan war veterans who found their services in demand in this scramble for supremacy. Over the ensuing years, many bosses ascended the hierarchy only to be killed by rivals or imprisoned for their crimes.

     As the 21st century dawned, the more successful and enterprising capos who managed to survive and thrive extended their businesses globally. They made beneficial alliances with the American Mafia and Colombian drug cartels. Their international operations included, but were not limited to, narcotics, money laundering, prostitution, and arms dealing.

     Anton Rostov had been one of the more tenacious would-be czars, and was now at the top of the heap in the United States. He had brazenly located his headquarters in Brighton Beach, and it was there, in the shadows, that Peter had personally witnessed the evil man viciously execute a rival. Rostov was now on trial for murder, and Peter’s testimony was a crucial account that the twelve men and woman on the jury needed to hear. Although temporarily walking the streets courtesy of an enormous bail, that freedom was soon to become a thing of the past for the assassin.

     Neal’s suppositions were proven correct when, one hour later, that very man actually walked through the back door of the Burkes’ home. Rostov carried himself with an arrogant swagger and wore a cruel sneer on his face. He arranged himself comfortably in a wingchair and peered down at the two captives like they were mud congealed on the bottom of his shoe.

     “This could have been so much easier for you, Agent Burke,” the man whispered in a deceptively soft voice. “But, of course, once again, you have become a thorn in my side.”

     “If you kill me, Rostov, the full might of the United States government will be on you, and there’s no way in hell that you’ll get away with it!” Peter spat out.

     “Oh, but I certainly will, you blustering fool,” the Russian boasted. “You are destined to die tonight, one way or the other. If you had not been so ridiculously foolhardy by trying to play a tough guy, your death would have come much more naturally. My associates were armed with a syringe filled with potassium chloride. With or without your cooperation, a lethal amount would have been injected into an inconspicuous place on your body, and your heart would have ceased to beat in very short order.

     Potassium is a natural element found in the human body, so it certainly would not raise any flags on autopsy. It would have mimicked a heart attack, not really so unlikely in a man entering his fifties toiling away in a stressful job. Jogging can only do so much, Agent Burke. It’s hard to accept, but often times we are simply held accountable by our genetic make-up. And how fortuitous for me that it would occur mere days before you were to testify at my trial. Without your damning eyewitness testimony, there is no evidence against me, and I’ll be found ‘not guilty’ and acquitted. Double-jeopardy will prevent me from being tried for that murder ever again.”

     “I’ve already given my deposition to the Grand Jury, so it’s all on the record,” Peter challenged.

     The Russian mafia don snorted, “My lawyers will file injunctions so that it can never be read in open court. I have the right to confront my accuser during my trial, and if you are not available, due process is not being upheld. You have to love this great country, no?”

     “My team will know that you’re behind this, Rostov, no matter how you handle it,” Peter replied menacingly.

     “But you see,” the evil man crowed, “I am going to give them someone else to concentrate on in their misguided efforts.”

     Peter and Neal both waited for the punch line, and they were not disappointed because Rostov was very eager to share.

     “As you can imagine, I have given this little glitch considerable thought on the ride over here, and am quite certain that I have devised an even better scenario for our little drama that now has an additional actor in the cast. Mr. Caffrey, you are going to have a starring role, and your name will undoubtedly appear in the newspaper and be heard on the television. You have good cheekbones, so the close-ups should be flattering. The camera will love you.”

     “What’s your strategy, Rostov?” Neal asked tiredly. “Quit the color commentary and get to the plot.”

     The Russian glared at Neal’s insolence, but did indeed continue.

     “You see, it would be imprudent of me to tell my associates to end both of you with a bullet to your brains, right here and now. One gunshot could be mistaken for a car engine’s backfire, but two more will most assuredly attract attention. So, you will die elsewhere tonight, Agent Burke, but you, my young friend, will not. Instead, I will be setting you free eventually, without that pesky tracking device on your ankle.”

     “And to what do I owe the privilege of your largess?” Neal asked sarcastically.

     “It is because you will be useful to me and play your part. You see, I am well aware of your recent problems with the FBI and with Agent Burke, in particular. I know that he will be assigning you a new handler because, apparently, he cannot stand to be in the same room with you anymore.”

     Both Peter and Neal tensed unperceptively, arriving at the same conclusion. Rostov had a mole in the White Collar office. Someone was feeding him information. This was really bad!

     Unaware of his prisoners’ astute deductions, Rostov continued, “So, let me run a little synopsis by you, Agent Burke, that I think you will find to be very entertaining, and a quite plausible explanation to your FBI team members.”

     Taking a breath, the storyteller spun his sick tale. “The hostility between the two of you is an open fact in the office. Chatter around the old water cooler even has it escalating, and gossipmongers have to assume that Mr. Caffrey has been beyond resentful and angry. Your discontented CI’s tracking anklet will provide proof that he came to your home tonight, Agent Burke. He finally came here to confront you, but things got out of hand and the two of you physically fought. You have both been quite cooperative by being method actors and leaving your blood on the rug for a forensic team to identify. It will validate a struggle and ensuing injuries. Then, poof!—suddenly, both of you vanish.

     That tracking anklet will also show that your CI traveled from this house to the edge of his radius before the device was slashed and left in a gutter on an access road to New Jersey. I know it is so cliché, but the swamps of the Meadowlands in Jersey were always Tony Soprano’s choice for interment of bodies that he didn’t want found, and I was such a fan. Did you know that authorities always suspected that Jimmy Hoffa is still there somewhere?” Rostov smiled maliciously and turned to Neal.

     “So, Mr. Caffrey, the Feds will reach the conclusion that you killed your former friend in a rage, disposed of his body, and then went on the run. All their ferocious and rabid attention will be focused on you and your capture, but you are a resourceful fugitive, and I have faith that you will stay out of touch until my trial comes to an end after I am found ‘not guilty.’ Without your mentor’s damning testimony, all will be right in the world once again. This is a good story—right? It’s clever, crafty, and almost Byzantine in nature.”

     “But what if I throw a monkey wrench in your bid for a ‘Best Picture’ screenplay?” Neal asked nastily. “What if I don’t run? What if I don’t play along and I tell the Feds what really happened here tonight?”

     Rostov looked at Neal coolly. “Oh, I doubt that you will do that, Mr. Caffrey. You see, I know your weakness; you have a good heart and would never want to put Mrs. Burke in jeopardy. Let us not forget that she is carrying the latest new edition to the Burke family chronicles, so there would be two lives hanging in the balance if you open your mouth.”

     “You malignant bastard,” Peter swore as he tried to lunge at Rostov who simply raised his heel and aimed for the injury on Peter’s arm. It sent the agent backwards stifling a cry of pain.

     “Simmer down, Sir Galahad,” the Russian ordered firmly. “Once I am acquitted of those murder charges, I will have no more incentive to harm your wife. She will get to have her child that, unfortunately, she will have to raise as a single mother. Unless, of course, Mr. Caffrey is not as proficient in eluding capture as I thought. But, even if you are taken into custody, my young friend, you must keep your mouth shut, or I will carry out my threat to kill Mrs. Burke. Do you want that on your beleaguered, soft-hearted conscience?”

     When both captives just honored Rostov with matching glares, he filled the silent void. “Why don’t I give the two of you a little time to talk this over so that we’re all on the same page? I hope that you do still talk to one another when the occasion warrants it.”

     The haughty Russian retreated to the open kitchen, out of earshot, but definitely keeping Neal and Peter in view. He began toying with Peter’s gun that had been hanging in its holster on the back of a kitchen chair.

     “Peter, I’m not leaving you,” Neal whispered. “There are two of us and only three of them, so maybe, with a bit of distraction, we can get away, or at least grab one of their guns.”

      Peter whispered back, “I don’t know how much help I can be with a gunshot wound in my arm. And besides, they’ll probably separate us and move us out in different vehicles.”

     When Neal looked like he was still going to object, Peter stopped him with a raised hand. “Neal, face facts. I’m a ‘dead man walking.’ You can’t save me, but you can save Elizabeth. You _have_ to save El.”

     “Peter,” Neal pleaded, “I don’t want to run. I’ll make sure that the FBI protects Elizabeth until they can nail Rostov’s ass to the wall. Maybe the Marshals can put her in temporary witness protection until they get the son of a bitch.”

     Peter shook his head. “You and I both know that Rostov has someone in the White Collar office on his payroll. He might also have someone within the Marshals’ ranks. We cannot take a chance, not with El and the baby. Please do this for me, Neal! I never thought that I would say this, but run hard and fast so that you don’t get caught. Maybe someday, the truth will come out somehow and it will exonerate you.”

     When Neal just looked at his handler skeptically, Peter’s look turned pleading. “The baby is a boy, Neal, a son that now I’ll never get to meet or love. He deserves to be born, and only you can make sure that he gets to have a chance at life. You can make that happen. Please, Neal, Rostov is going to be my executioner; don’t let him kill my wife and son, too.”

     When Neal looked at Peter, there were tears shimmering in his eyes. “Peter, I …..” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

     “I know, Neal; me, too,” Peter said softly. “We have had so many missteps and hurts along the way in our relationship. I am sorry, Neal, so very sorry, that things couldn’t have gone better for both of us. Just feel good that, in the end, you will be safeguarding the things that are the most important to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Eventually, Peter’s wrists were secured in front of him with a length of rope that the Russian associates had scrounged from the basement. He was thrown into the back of a white van parked in the dark alley behind his house. One of the henchmen drove it slowly out of the neighborhood, attracting no one’s attention.

     Rostov waited another hour in the Burke house before having his second accomplice restrain Neal with Peter’s FBI cuffs and place him in the backseat of a non-descript black sedan beside the evil Russian. True to his word, they headed toward New Jersey along surface side roads that had no traffic cameras. Before Neal’s anklet turned from green to red, the Mafia don sliced through the strap with a lethal-looking switchblade knife and tossed it from the window. At the next intersection, the car changed direction and headed back to the city, dropping Neal in a deserted section of Pelham Bay Park in the Bronx.

     “I’m feeling generous and giving you a sporting chance,” Rostov said as he brandished a burner phone in his hand. “I trust that you will now have some calls to make to set up your itinerary. Safe travels, my young friend.”

     When the car roared off, it only took a matter of seconds for Neal to get himself out of the cuffs and to place a call. Thank God, Mozzie answered on the first ring.

     “Mozzie, you need to come and get me,” Neal explained in a rush.

     “Neal! June just called and told me that the Marshals invaded her house looking for you. What’s going on? Are we running? Where am I taking you?” Mozzie was excited and intrigued, but was really confused by his friend’s perplexing non-answer.

     “Please just come and get me because there’s something that I promised to do,” Neal answered sadly.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Two hours before, Peter found that he was not being driven to the Meadowlands as Rostov had threatened. Instead, the white van had accessed Ocean Parkway on its way to the Long Island shore. The desolate brush along the route was still a popular body-dumping ground used by assassins, just a bit more contemporary in nature.

     Although the wound in Peter’s arm was still throbbing, the agent surmised that it was just a deep laceration rather than a life-threatening injury. However, what was happening to him now _was_ life threatening, and Peter was desperate enough to try one last play before giving up. Despite what he had said to Neal, he didn’t plan on going placidly to his death like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter.

     There was a small opening between the back of the van and the front seat. As quietly as he could, Peter slithered forward on his belly, hands still bound in rope. The drone of the engine drowned out any sounds that he made, and he was hoping the driver would not notice him in the rear-view mirror. Taking a deep breath to steel himself against the pain in his arm, he suddenly rose up and sprang forward, butting the man behind the wheel with his own head. Peter had successfully landed a vicious blow just above the man’s right ear. Startled and experiencing unexpected pain, the driver instinctively turned, which caused him to veer across the road directly into the thick trunk of an ages-old oak tree. He was not wearing a seat-restraint, so the abrupt halt of the car’s momentum caused him to crash through the windshield. Jagged shards of glass sliced through the carotid artery in his neck, and he bled out quickly. Meanwhile, Peter lay motionless on the floor in the back of the ill-fated vehicle.


	2. Taking the Rap

      Neal sat dejectedly hunched on the side of the road, unable to comprehend the enormity of his grief. He almost felt as if he were in a fugue state. If he let himself feel, he knew that he would shatter into a million pieces, so he swallowed down the constriction in his throat, and rapidly blinked to alleviate the burning behind his eyes. He had to be strong for Elizabeth and the baby because he had promised Peter. 

     Sometime later, a yellow cab with Mozzie at the helm, pulled in beside him. The young con man climbed into the front seat, but before he let Mozzie put the car in gear, he related, in a disembodied monotone, everything that had happened that fateful night.

     Mozzie looked sucker-punched and his voice was somber and raw. “As you are well aware, Neal, the Suit and I never really saw eye to eye, but I would have never wished that on him, not to mention Mrs. Suit. This is so epically tragic that words fail me.”

     After a moment of silence, Mozzie asked meekly, “So, where do we go, Neal?”

     “ _We_ don’t go anywhere, Moz. You can take me back to my loft and I’ll just wait for the inevitable. I’ll let everyone assume the worst but I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

     “Neal, don’t fall on your sword!” Mozzie begged. “Peter told you to run, so do it! If the Feds arrest you, they will be out for blood. They’ll charge you with murdering an agent—one of their own. If you even make it to trial, they will undoubtedly go for the death penalty. Think this through, Neal. What good can you do for Elizabeth, or anyone, from prison while you’re awaiting a lethal injection cocktail?”

     “If they don’t have a body, I don’t think that they can levy the death penalty, Moz. And if I run, I can’t be sure that Elizabeth will remain safe. Just promise me one thing, my friend,” Neal pleaded.

     “Anything, mon frère,” Mozzie hastily agreed.

     “If anything happens to Elizabeth, the new baby, or even to me, do whatever you have to do—make deals with the devil, re-kindle your old Detroit ties, or by whatever means—just take Rostov out for good, and let him know that he’s paying the piper for Peter Burke before he takes his last breath!”

     “I promise, Neal. I promise,” Mozzie reiterated.

     On the ride back to the city, soft music emanated from the taxi’s radio, but Mozzie switched it off absently. “It seems like a funeral dirge should be playing. It would definitely be more appropriate. After I drop you off at your Armageddon, I’ll call June and arrange for the best lawyer that our money can buy,” he promised earnestly.

     Like a condemned man walking to his execution, Neal climbed the steps to his loft to find his door wide open and a team of FBI agents busily tearing the space apart. All the participants seemed to freeze for a microsecond before they fell upon him like hounds on the fox. He was roughly manhandled, his hands restrained behind his back, and his person thoroughly searched for weapons. He was read his rights and hastily taken downtown to the FBI office. He was now seated in a White Collar interrogation room shackled to a sturdy steel table behind two-way glass. He wondered who would take the first crack at him.

     He was almost impressed when Special Agent Kyle Bancroft and Section Chief Bruce Hawes strode into the room, shoulder to shoulder, and sat across from him. Did they really think that they could intimidate him by sheer number and hierarchical importance? He simply favored them with a thousand-yard stare as they laid out the facts and their suppositions before him in clipped tones.

     “Caffrey, things are looking really bad for you right now,” Bancroft began. “We know that you and Agent Burke have had your issues, and it would appear that those issues are now going to be your one-way ticket to either life in prison or the death penalty. The ball is in your court, so convince us one way or the other.”

     When Neal remained silent, Bancroft reiterated all the damning evidence that Neal knew was out there. Then he tried to lay a trap for the prisoner, but it was really kind of lame, in Neal’s estimation.

     “Look, Caffrey, maybe you can sway our take on just how this went down. We know that you went to Agent Burke’s house. Maybe you just went to talk, or maybe he told you to come. The two of you argued and it got ugly. The bruises and cuts on your face show that it definitely wasn’t a peaceful little discussion. Your blood and his are all over the living room rug.

     So, you both got in your licks, and maybe Agent Burke pulled his gun out to arrest you. You panicked, and tried to wrest it out of his hand and it accidently went off. Now you’re really screwed, and the first thing that comes to mind is to hide the evidence—hide Burke’s body. We know that you were in the process of leaving the city when you cut your tracking anklet, so we are surmising that you were taking his remains somewhere. Do the right thing; tell us where he is and make this easier for yourself.”

     Neal didn’t bat an eye and maintained his version of a sphinx—all knowing but refusing to provide any answers to riddles. Now Section Chief Hawes waded into the fray.

     “None of this was accidental, you piece of slime! You came prepared because you planned to kill the one person who gave a damn about you. Peter’s gun was an FBI standard issue Glock 22. We recovered a round from the floor of his home that came from a Walther PPQ, 22 caliber. So, you brought that weapon with you. You knew that Peter was fed up with your ungrateful nonsense and was getting ready to put some distance between you. He had finally given up on you. That pissed you off, and you did what your kind always does. You destroy anything good and righteous in your life!”

     Neal endured the inquisition, allowing the determined men to pontificate, threaten, and insult him for several more hours before they ran out of steam. He never answered a question, just as he never asked for a lawyer. In fact, he never uttered a word, sitting rigid and steely-eyed before them. They left the room to re-group, and then decided on a new strategy. They would send in someone familiar who might be able to reach into his very dark soul.

     Clinton Jones now sat across from Neal, his bearing stiff, but not quite menacing, at least not yet. Neal met his eyes steadily, and was curious how the by-the-book agent would play this. Neal would never have gone as far as to assume that Jones was a friend. They shared a comfortable co-existence while working, sometimes side-by-side, on cases. Occasionally, they shared a drink, but Neal knew the relationship was tentative, and he recognized that he never had Jones’ complete trust. Just like everyone else in the White Collar office, he tolerated Neal’s presence because Peter wanted him there and Jones respected Peter.

     “Caffrey, this is so out of left field. Peter gave you a chance to make good. He saw something salvageable in you and put his career on the line for you again and again. He always had your back, always covered for you when you screwed up, time after time. How could you repay him for his faith in you by taking his life? Tell me that there’s some other explanation for this,” Jones pleaded.

     When Jones got no response, his resolve hardened. “You know, Caffrey, I think there is another reason for this whole thing. Peter was supposed to testify in a few days against Anton Rostov. He was going to put that Russian bastard away for good. I think that, in your evil criminal mind, you saw an opportunity to make some beneficial alliances with the devil. How much was Rostov willing to pay you to kill Peter? Was the big payoff being delivered to your ritzy loft? Is that why you went back—was it to collect your blood money?”

     Now it was Neal who had to brace himself not to react because Jones seemed to be trying to connect the dots. Thankfully, Jones didn’t pursue his conjecture any further. Instead, he suddenly pushed back his chair and slammed his hand down on the table. “Just so you know, Caffrey, I’m going to snag a ringside seat to watch your execution. I owe that to Peter!”

     Next up was Diana, the one who Neal always considered to be the more formidable of the two junior agents. He wondered how her fury would play out. Surprisingly, the tough paragon of hard-hitting justice did not come into the room like an avenging Amazon. She walked in slowly, and Neal noted that her eyes were red-rimmed. She sat down at the table with a disturbing lassitude.

     “Neal,” she began, “I will never accept that you are capable of harming Peter. I know that you are covering something up, but I certainly can’t understand what is so valuable that it needs to be hidden. You might be a lot of things, but you’re not a killer. Did someone else kill him? Who are you protecting? If Peter is indeed dead, and if you know where he is, please tell us. Don’t just abandon him like garbage. Let us bring him home to Elizabeth.”

     Suddenly, Neal found that he had to look away and not meet her eyes. Taking a deep breath, Diana persisted.

     “Neal, we might have bickered like squabbling siblings the last three years, but I think that we always understood each other. At times, we’ve shared our heartaches and knew exactly what the other was feeling. You are not some callous murderer, Neal. You would never kill Peter no matter how angry either of you had become. You might run, but you would never resort to violence, especially against your friend. I think, deep down, you loved him, just as we all did—maybe even more. Let me help you out of this mess so that we can both mourn him properly. Please, Neal.”

     Finally, Diana sighed and rose from her chair. “Neal, if you ever decide to talk, I promise that I’ll listen and hear you out.”

     There was but a brief lull before the FBI brought in the big guns. Retired ASAC Reese Hughes took center stage and matched Neal squint for squint.

     “Caffrey, Peter was my friend and I mentored him from his first days in White Collar. He was one of the good ones, and he never disappointed me—that is, until you came along. Somehow, like a malicious Svengali, you managed to skew his judgment, dragging him down deeper and deeper into your messes.

     Tell me where he is, you little bastard, or I swear that I will make your life hell so that you will wish that you were dead as well. I have fostered relations with other agencies during the course of my long career. Some of them have no qualms about utilizing questionable methods to extract information. You might think that the laws of justice will protect you, but strange things can happen once you are behind thick walls. I wouldn’t think twice about throwing you to the wolves. Since I am out of the game now, I don’t have to play by the same rules anymore.”

     Neal didn’t doubt Hughes’ threats for one minute, but the threat that Rostov posed to Elizabeth’s well-being trumped everything that the old warrior could dish out. The con man just concentrated on keeping his breathing even and his mouth shut. He had to run the gauntlet. What more could they throw at him? However, the last person to enter the interrogation room door was almost his undoing.

     Elizabeth entered slowly, escorted by Jones. Although her eyes were puffy and red, she walked almost regally to her seat, composed and calm. Neal had to stop himself from automatically glancing at her stomach and picturing the little life growing there, safe and unaware of the pathos around him.

     Elizabeth took a deep breath and said but one word—“Neal.” It was enough to bring unbidden tears to the young man’s eyes, and he finally spoke for the first time.

     “Elizabeth, I am so very sorry.”

     “Just tell me why, Neal. You loved Peter; I know you did. So how could this have happened? Was it because he was leaving you? Did you see his reassignment of a handler for you as an abandonment? Well, now I feel abandoned because you have taken him away from me—from us. His son will never know his father. There will not even be a headstone bearing Peter’s name that I can show his son one day. It will be as if my husband never existed because he was never brought back to us. How can I mourn him, Neal? How can I do that? Please tell me where he is so that I can bring him home where he belongs.”

     Then her stoic demeanor shattered and Elizabeth began to sob. Neal could not share that he was mourning Peter as well, just as profoundly and overwhelmingly. He could never make her aware of that because he had to protect her and the baby at all costs. He had to rein in his own emotions and maintain the wall of silence, no matter that his own heart was breaking.

     Of course, there was a multitude of eyes observing everything behind that glass wall, and thankfully, they had the humanity to rescue Elizabeth. Jones came back to lead her from the room, sending Neal a black look over his shoulder. The next person that he brought in was someone unfamiliar in an expensive three-piece suit, who introduced himself as Jonathan Greenberg, an attorney whom June had put on retainer for Neal.

     “My client is invoking his right to counsel, so questioning stops right now,” the imperious man demanded. “You have been sweating him for hours and have denied him his civil rights. I could give the FBI a black eye by slapping charges of habeas corpus on all of you. Either bring charges or he leaves with me,” the lawyer threatened.

     Neal knew this was all hot air and meant nothing. They would keep him because they had a mountain of circumstantial evidence against him. They just didn’t have Peter’s body, which Neal couldn’t provide even if he had wanted to do so. The appearance of an attorney at least got him out of that room, although he was later transported to the Federal Metropolitan Detention Center. Of course, an indictment was eventually brought against him for suspected murder, and, since he was considered a flight risk after having cut his anklet, he was denied bail. He was also placed in solitary and deprived of any visitors except for his attorney, who presented himself the following day.

     “First off, let me just say, Neal, that I don’t really want to know if you’re guilty of the crime or not. My job is to defend you to the best of my ability, regardless of what they claim that you did. Please do not muddy the waters by saying anything that would make me deviate from the prime objective of setting you free. Although, in this case, being free is not an option. You invalidated your parole agreement with the FBI by removing that tracking device, so you have to realize the consequences of that violation are not going away.

     As to the murder charges against you, all that the FBI has is inconclusive circumstantial evidence. They claim that you had motive and opportunity to do the deed, but they have no eyewitnesses, no murder weapon, and, most crucially, they have no dead body. We can certainly counter everything with our own arguments and punch holes in their theories.

     “So,” Neal said slowly, “they are not focusing on anybody else at this time?”

     “No,” Greenberg answered. “What they are focusing on is searching through the Meadowlands’ swamps with cadaver dogs and ground probes, but that place encompasses acres and acres. They could be at it for months, but I can’t see the search continuing for very long because of monetary constraints. In the meantime, we will build our defense slowly, just as the federal prosecutor will build his case against you. I’m not going to lie to you, Neal, this takes time, and you will not see a courtroom for months.”

     “I’m in no hurry,” Neal replied. He had no intention of ever telling his attorney anything that even remotely resembled the truth. It no longer mattered what happened to him. It was all about keeping Peter’s wife and baby safe until Rostov managed to beat the rap, once and for all.

~~~~~~~~~~

      While Neal languished in solitary, Anton Rostov, however, did see a courtroom quite soon. The prosecuting attorney had gotten a two-day delay when his star witness against the Russian went missing. However, the judge could not stall the proceedings any longer because a jury was sequestered. Just as in Neal’s case, the evidence, although compelling, was all circumstantial. The members of the jury suspected that he was guilty, but were not given the concrete testimony that they needed to convict him. They deliberated for three days before reporting to the judge, via the foreman, that they were hopelessly deadlocked and could not unanimously reach a verdict one way or the other. The judge was forced to declare a mistrial. It was not the perfect scenario that Rostov had in mind. If new evidence came to light, the prosecutor could refile again because double jeopardy was not attached. Rostov thought that he could outsmart the system, but now he would have to watch his step very carefully.


	3. Delayed Gratification

     On that fateful night of his abduction, Peter tediously swam back to consciousness. The first thing that he became aware of was pain—there was pain in his back and his right arm, and a ferocious pounding in his head. He could not come to grips with where he was. It was dark, and the surface under his body was hard. When he groggily tried to raise up on his forearms, he found that his hands were bound together in front of him. He began to experience a sickening sense of panic, and he took deep breaths through his mouth to quell the fear. All that succeeded in doing was making his head want to explode, and a sense of vertigo and nausea overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and willed his body to relax.

     “ _Think, think_ ,” he admonished himself, lying flat once again. Finally, it began to crystallize slowly in his mind. _Rostov!_  Yes, now he remembered. The Russian mafia head had been at his house and had mandated Peter’s execution. Peter had been on his way to his death, but what had happened?

     When the throbbing in his temples receded a bit, Peter cautiously rose up slowly. He could make out the contours of the inside of the van. Why was it stopped? Edging forward, he peered into the front of the vehicle, and once again, nausea sent the bitter taste of bile into the back of his throat. The grisly remains of the driver, precariously perched halfway through the front windshield, were a sickening spectacle to behold. The man had almost been decapitated by the razor sharp glass shards, and Peter would bet that almost his entire blood supply was congealing around him.

     Peter’s mind went into overdrive. He had been granted a reprieve. Well, maybe not a reprieve, but rather a temporary stay of execution. He had to use this accident to his advantage, but he also had to get away in case another of Rostov’s goons came looking for them. Most likely, the driver had been instructed to call when the deed was done, and, if he didn’t check in, someone else would come to investigate.

     Thankfully, the doors at the back of the van still worked, and he opened one hurriedly. Jumping down, he surveyed his surroundings, which looked to be a never-ending stretch of barren landscape with only an occasional scrub pine in evidence. As quickly as he could, Peter retreated into that flat, sandy expanse, trying to withdraw as far away from the road as possible.

     Every step was painful, jarring an aching shoulder, rib, or back muscle. His headache had gotten so bad that his vision was blurry. It was too dark to see the condition of his right forearm. He had finally remembered that he had sustained a gunshot wound to it hours earlier. Eventually, when the adrenalin rush had peaked and he was almost to the point of exhaustion, he sat down on the hard ground and used his teeth to worry the knots in the rope that encircled his wrists. It took him quite some time to finally get free from the restraints, and then he was on the move again.

     Occasionally, Peter perceived headlights in the distance traversing the highway. He would immediately drop down fearfully, hugging his frame as close to the ground as possible. He didn’t want to be spotted by the Russian’s posse, and he wasn’t discovered until late the next afternoon. Thankfully, it wasn’t Rostov or his men who came upon his prone body. Two young hiking enthusiasts found an incapacitated man that, at first glance, looked like he was dead. Dehydration, a severe concussion, and a fulminating infection in his right arm had rendered Peter almost unconscious, and when EMTs finally arrived and tried to arouse him, he could only mumble incoherently. When they loaded him into the emergency vehicle for transport to a Long Island community hospital, he thought that he had been recaptured and was back in that white van once again.

     The ride to the local emergency room was swift. During the course of the journey, cardiac monitor leads were placed on Peter’s chest, a pulse oximeter on his finger, and an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. The paramedic who was trying to insert an intravenous line was having difficulty accessing a vein due to Peter’s dehydrated state, and the federal agent did not help matters by feebly trying to fend off the man’s hands. Peter’s confused mind had taken him to another place. He was again seated in his living room whispering to his CI. _“Neal, Rostov is going to be my executioner; don’t let him kill my wife and son, too.”_

     Peter might have thought that he was saying these words out loud, but they were playing in his head, over and over, like a needle skipping on an old vinyl record. The emergency responders had been watching the readouts on their monitors and knew that they were losing ground. As they crashed through the trauma bay doors at the hospital, they began calling out numbers to the admitting resident—heart rate, blood pressure, blood oxygen concentration, and a Glasco Coma score.

     The treating physician did his own quick assessment. He suspected that this particular patient was in septic shock from an obviously infected lesion on his right forearm. The disorientation could be from that or a possible head injury. If the team managed to stabilize the patient, extensive tests could then be performed to ascertain any head trauma, broken bones, or damaged vital organs.

     The triage nurse made the physician aware that Peter’s heart rate was tachycardic, his blood pressure was dipping, and his oxygen concentration had fallen to 74%. The calm doctor responded by activating the drill that the medical team knew so well.

     “Okay, people, we’re going to have to tube this guy to maintain a patent airway ‘cause he’s trying to crash on us.”

     A ventilator was efficiently wheeled to the side of the stretcher, and the professionals hastened to assemble the intubation tray, laryngoscope, and the medication needed to paralyze Peter’s throat. That was necessary so that the respiratory therapist could thread the endotracheal tube into place without damaging the vocal chords. The trauma team was trying to beat the clock, but the physician paused briefly to quickly pull Peter’s mask down and speak into his ear.

     “What is your name, Sir? Can you tell me your name? You are very ill and in a hospital getting treatment. Can you please tell me your name?”

     Peter was still mired down in his traumatically induced memory when he heard a voice in his ear. Was it Neal beside him who was whispering to him?

     “Neal?” he finally managed to rasp out.

     “Is that your first or last name?” The physician asked, but Peter’s attention had wandered again.

     “Sir, please tell me your whole name.”

     Peter’s tortured mind had returned to his mantra, and he began to recite, “ _Neal, Rostov is_ …….” He never got to finish the sentence about the Russian being his executioner because alarms started clanging, and it was suddenly do or die time. The team paralyzed his throat, positioned their airway, and used an ambu bag to pump much needed oxygen into his lungs.

     “Did you understand what he said?” the doctor asked the nurse who was standing next to him. “I definitely got the Neal part, but how about the rest of it?”

     “I think he was saying _Rosoff_. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it was, so I’m going to put _Neal Rosoff_ on his admitting paper. A social worker can try to sort it out later and find next of kin.

~~~~~~~~~~

     So, that is how Peter assumed the alias of _Neal Rosoff_ for the next three very precarious weeks. Managing septic shock and a traumatic brain injury was a delicate balancing act that manifested with challenge after challenge. The treating physicians in the Intensive Care Unit countered the life-threatening invasive bacterial infection with huge does of antibiotics. They maintained his dangerously low blood pressure with plasma expanders, and when his kidneys failed to kick in after the dehydration was corrected, they perfused them with saline and performed dialysis on three occasions to remove the built-up toxins. They administered additional oxygen through his ventilator, and kept him sedated so that, in his confused state, he wouldn’t pull out his breathing tube.

     A very overworked and harried social worker with too many cases under her purview tried her best to locate a relative of Neal Rosoff. She even called the local police on Long Island to ask if anyone had come to them to file a “missing person” report. Of course, she came up empty-handed, and Peter’s file with the incorrect name was placed in her pending box along with a multitude of others.

     Modern medicine has come a long way in the last century, and the medical magicians perform astounding miracles on a daily basis in hospitals around the globe. The dedicated professionals modestly consider it just part of the job, but that job is a daunting one at times. The mission before them had been to tenaciously hang onto Peter and not let him tumble into the abyss, and they proved that they were up to the task. Happily, Peter was one of their triumphs. It did not happen quickly; it was a tedious day-to-day progression of baby steps—but the most important thing was that he did survive!

     As Peter began to breathe on his own, he was weaned off the ventilator. His amount of sedation was then slowly reduced as well. When he appeared responsive and seemed to understand what was being said to him, the doctor explained that they were going to be removing the breathing tube, and then he would be able to speak.

     “Your throat is definitely going to be sore, Neal,” the doctor told him. “The nurse will get you some ice chips to soothe the discomfort. At first, you’ll only be able to whisper, but I promise you, it will get better and your voice will get stronger.”

     And so it came to pass that a very dedicated medical team in a small, unassuming community hospital found out that their recovering success story, Neal Rosoff, was really missing Special Agent Peter Burke from New York City. To say that things became even more astounding was an understatement. After their patient had placed a long distance call, it wasn’t long before two Federal agents from the FBI’s White Collar Division, their acting supervisor, a Federal prosecuting attorney, a Federal judge and a stenographer all tried to crowd into one very small ICU cubicle. Nervously pacing in a family waiting room was one very pregnant and anxious woman who wanted desperately to see the husband that she thought that she had lost.

     Peter related everything that had transpired that fateful night, and the court stenographer got in all down for the record. The prosecuting attorney would re-file for a new trial charging Rostov with the original murder in Brighton Beach, as well as the kidnapping of a federal agent, and then ordering that agent’s murder. The original judge on the case, who now stood at Peter’s bedside, mandated that Rostov be re-arrested and held without bail.

     Finally, acting supervisor Bancroft spoke and laid out his plan. “Peter, until we find the mole in the White Collar office, you are going to remain Neal Rosoff. Once that you are well enough to be discharged from the hospital, we will set you and Elizabeth up in a safe house. Besides myself, only Agents Berrigan and Jones will know the location. When Rostov is convicted and incarcerated, then and only then, can you come back home.”

     Peter was definitely not happy. “That could take months, Kyle. I am not going to cower in the shadows. I’ll be more alert and careful now that I’m aware that I’m a target.”

     “Agent Burke,” the judge spoke up, “I’ll make sure that the case is put on the docket immediately as soon as I return to New York City. There does not need to be a delay. Rostov’s attorney had prepared for this case just a few weeks ago, so he has his research and arguments already in hand. It will be a matter of weeks, not months for this to be resolved, I assure you.”

     Peter turned again to Bancroft. “Is there any way to get the Marshals’ posse off of Neal’s trail? I’m the one who told him to run to protect Elizabeth, so his escape is all on me. Eventually, I can find him again, after this is all over.”

     Suddenly, Bancroft and Jones looked embarrassed, but Diana almost looked smug.

     “Peter,” Bancroft said softly. “Caffrey is being held in a federal prison.”

     Peter looked shocked. “You mean you already caught him? Huh! The guy must be losing his touch.”

     Jones finally manned up. “Peter, Caffrey never ran. Basically, he turned himself in.”

     “Well, what did he tell you?” Peter wanted to know.

     “Not a damn thing!” Diana chimed in with a Cheshire cat smile. She almost seemed proud.

     Even though Peter argued long and hard for Neal’s release, Bancroft remained firm. “We’re going to keep him in the dark until this all goes down with Rostov. He’s actually safer in prison right now, and we don’t want to tip our hand. We still want him to appear guilty of your murder.”

     Peter finally capitulated because there was nothing else that he could do. However, now he was determined to see his wife and hold her in his arms. The reunion was emotional on both their parts. Even the littlest Burke, nestled behind the baby bump, seemed to be celebrating by kicking joyfully. As Elizabeth sighed contentedly and laid her head on her husband’s shoulder, she mused out loud.

     “Neal didn’t run because of me. I don’t think that I have ever been more deeply touched by another person’s brave selflessness.”

     “Neal’s behavior is really not surprising, El. He _never_ does what I tell him.” The fond smile on Peter’s face belied the gruffness of his words.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Anton Rostov was arrested that very night, and, as predicted was denied bail. Disinformation was then disseminated in the White Collar office, and the unknown mole took the bait. The guy was a recent transfer from Organized Crime, and he was now facing charges of collusion with the Russian mob and conspiracy to kidnap and cause bodily harm to a federal agent. Other assorted charges were pending as well.

     The irony of this whole situation was that Peter never had to testify at trial. After only one week in Riker’s, Anton Rostov was mysteriously slain by an unknown person or persons. He did not go gently into that good night. The numerous cuts on his body were evidence of an involved, slow torture, and the conclusion to his story was a throat that was viciously slashed from ear to ear. No one claimed to have heard anything—neither fellow prisoners nor guards. The murder weapon was never found—only a mutilated body that wasn’t even cold before a feeding frenzy occurred in the Russian mob’s hierarchy. Everyone concluded that he was a victim of a rival determined to claw his way to the top.

     One week later, two US Marshals arrived at the Federal Metropolitan Detention facility to collect a prisoner. They shackled Neal and, with a burly escort on either side of him, walked him to the garage where he was shoved into the back of an unmarked black Ford sedan. They wouldn’t tell Neal where they were taking him, and a ghoulish thought entered his mind. The suspicious con man began to suspect that the Feds had found Peter’s body and had decided to avenge one of their own in their uniquely clandestine way. He wondered if anyone would ever find _his_ body.

     However, Neal was really puzzled when they began making their way to Brooklyn, finally parking in front of the Burke townhome. The two Marshals dragged him from the car, marched him up the steps and, amazingly, they removed his handcuffs after ringing the doorbell.

     The door opened almost immediately as if someone was expecting them. To Neal’s surprise, Elizabeth stood before him, a dazzling smile on her face. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into a hug that he returned tentatively. To say that he was confused was an understatement. She then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and steered him around the corner. It was then that Neal’s breath left him in a rush. Peter, whole and intact, gingerly pushed himself off the sofa and moved toward someone who seemed frozen in place. Neal opened his mouth, but no words emerged, but then no words were really needed in that moment in time.

     It was much, much later when the two old friends had finally caught up.

     “Somehow I just can’t see you as a ‘ _Neal_ ,’” the real Neal claimed.

     “Yeah, well that moniker certainly does have a lot of baggage,” Peter said wryly. “I’m not sure that I could carry it all.”

     “Hey,” he added, smiling at the younger man, “I have a present for you.” Then Peter held out a new tracking anklet to Neal. “If anymore of these little puppies get destroyed, the Marshals are going to start taking the replacement costs out of your stipend.”

     Neal gave Peter a sardonic smirk. “So when am I going to get my new handler, Peter?”

     “You’re not,” Peter said definitively. “Even though I’m ASAC, I am going to play to my strengths. I can do the most good in the field; it’s where I belong and where I want to be, working cases with my partner.”

~~~~~~~~~

     Neal and Mozzie sat on Neal’s terrace that night, a glass of wine in each of their hands as well as a long, black cigar. The evening was mild and the sky was clear. The comforting white noise of traffic provided the city’s background music.

     “It seems that all is right with the world once again,” Neal began the quiet conversation. “The Feds are convinced that competitors are responsible for taking Rostov out.”

     The two men stared at each other for a beat in the dim light, sharing a bond of tacit knowledge that had been forged through years of hardship, disappointment, and loss. It was why they understood each other so well, sometimes without the benefit of the spoken word.

     However, it was Mozzie who finally broke the silence. “Being an orphan, I never had a family. Amazingly enough, over these last few years, it seems that I somehow managed to finally acquire one—you, June, Mrs. Suit, and inexplicably, even the Suit, himself,” he said almost fondly.

     Then, even though his voice still remained very soft, there was a hard determination to his timbre.

     “And nobody hurts my family and gets away with it.”


End file.
